


run (better run)

by activatingAggro (pigeonfancier)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Memory Alteration, Partial Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 22:49:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16752949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/activatingAggro
Summary: “There’s only three stages.” If Raphae layered his patience on any thicker, you’d drown in it. You wish you could. “You shouldn’t have pushed that far at all.” His eyes soften. “You could’ve hurt yourself. You - god, ID, what were you thinking?”His fingers brush your cheek, and bile rises in your throat. When you pull away, he exhales, shoulders slumping, but he doesn’t follow.You take another sip of tea. You can’t get angry. You won’t get angry. And if your voice goes dry, that’s not the sort of thing that draws more then a buzz of discontent from your pan. They can make you mild! They can’t make you pleasant, no matter how much they try.“I was thinking, darling, that it’d make a good show -”“You tortured them,” Raphae says, flat, and his eyes aren’t nearly so soft, now.Thank the gods. The way he’s looking at you is so much better than before. Anything’s better than that, so you smile at him, crooked and lazy, so he can see the green on your teeth. “But the crowd loved it, didn’t they?”Comballet is a bloody sport, but it doesn't usually involve torture. ID brings it to the next level, but his matesprit has some objections.





	run (better run)

“What,” Raphae says, with great despair, “are you doing?”

You pause, one foot still on the tile. When you twist up your leg to check, the sole of your boot’s still scraped clean of mud and blood entirely. “I’m not going to track on the carpet, dear,” you protest, squinting in the light, “but - well - if you’d rather -”

When you yank on your psionics, you nearly double over.

There’s fire in your pan, coursing through your veins and scalding everything they pass by. Pain ripples through you, all the way from the top down: burning through your skin, seeping out in pulses from your horns. While there’s pink dancing in front of your eyes, when you blink, there’s yellow, too.

Hands clamp down on your shoulders. You’d bent a knee without thinking, horns ducked, but all you can manage is a thin rattle of protest as Raphae steers you over to the couch. “That was dumb. Sit down,” he says, and you could take it, if he was angry.

But he’s not. When you blink the iron out of your eyes, his brow is knit and his lips are thin, and he looks so dreadfully disappointed as he fetches the tea.

You’d hit him, if you could. You don’t want his help. You hadn’t asked for it, not once, not ever, and if you thought carving the words into his thick skull to make him believe that, then you would - but you _can’t._ Even the thought has your pan nanny weighing down on you, heavy as a fist, close enough to pain that it makes your eyes flutter closed, and no amount of ire’s worth that, not when so much as _sparking_ already aches.

So you push the thought down, douse it to the bottom of your pan, until it’s nothing more than a bittersweet pang to deal with later.

Instead, you curl against the arm of the couch, ignoring the way you’re streaking green and yellow across the black. The cleaning droids will take care of it. They always do, and if they charge a little more, then he should’ve just let you go to bed. “It’s just a _little_ burn-out.” Small-talk isn’t what you want, not when your mouth stings with unfamiliar iron, and everything aches. But Raphae’s rounding the corner from the kitchen nook - ha, nook - again, a glass of the iced brew in his hands, a rag on his wrist, and you can already tell he won’t let you sit in peace.

You’d slunk into the hive hours after your performance to try and avoid him. But of course he’d stayed up waiting for you. Why wouldn’t he?

He _is_ your matesprit.

“Barely stage one,” you insist as he pushes the glass into your hands. All you want to do is curl up in your recuperacoon and sleep for the next three days, but it’s dawning on you that it’s not going to happen, not until you drink the tea. Perhaps you could stall! But what if he _ordered_ you to drink it? So you take a sip instead, grimacing at the chemicals that lather your tongue. Rubbing it against the roof of your mouth, unfortunately, does onthing to dislodge them.

“Barely stage one is too close. That’s -” If Raphae ever got angry, this would be so much easier! That’d be an _allowance_. If he got angry, then maybe so could you, without your nanny pressing in like an anvil on a weight, but he just sighs instead, like you’re a pupa, like you’re Sipara caught in his room for the third time. “There’s only three stages.” If Raphae layered his patience on any thicker, you’d drown in it. You wish you _could_. “You shouldn’t have pushed that far at all.” His eyes soften. “You could’ve hurt yourself. You - god, ID, what were you thinking?”

His fingers brush your cheek, and bile rises in your throat. When you pull away, he exhales, shoulders slumping, but he doesn’t follow.

You take another sip of tea. You can’t get angry. You won’t get angry. And if your voice goes dry, that’s not the sort of thing that draws more then a buzz of discontent from your pan. They can make you mild! They can’t make you pleasant, no matter how much they try.

“I was thinking, darling, that it’d make a good show -”

“You tortured them,” Raphae says, flat, and his eyes aren’t nearly so soft, now.

Thank the gods. The way he’s looking at you is so much better than before. Anything’s better than that, so you smile at him, crooked and lazy, so he can see the green on your teeth. “But the crowd loved it, didn’t they?”

“You weren’t supposed to, Iconic.” He runs a hand through his hair, tangling his hair in the strands. And maybe you should be pleased, but it’s hard, when the next words he says are so stiff: “Shepherd’s furious. Wattan had a prestigious career ahead of them. And they were scheduled to start working under Neophyte Dimseede next perigee. You knew that.”

“Working _under_ , hmm?” At his look, you laugh, curling your lip at him. “Don’t prosleytize me. I did them a _favour_ , Raphae, and you know it. D'you think they wanted to be sent off to be someone’s _personal assistant?_ No. They wanted to dance.”

“Same as the rest of us.” There’s drugs in the tea, meant to bring down your temperature, freeze all the straining in your blood vessels and slow the expansion until it’s no longer a danger. And although it’s unpleasant, you can feel it working. When you tug at your psi - gently, _gently_ as you can manage, more of a tap than anything else - although there’s a ripple of protest down your spine, it’s nothing compared to earlier.

Not even stage one, then. You’ll be better in a night or two, and Raphae’ll have no reason to stay hovering. Maybe you’ll suggest the troupe does a tour outside of Temasek, too, in the next week or so. Shepherd does hate for him to leave the city.

“No one can dance forever. Psionics don’t save your knees. And - this is a stupid debate,” he finally huffs, hand still in his hair. “And you’re not taking it seriously. Don’t pretend you did anyone a favour, and certainly not _Wattan._ Shepherd is _furious_ , Iconic.”

“I’m supposed to entertain, sweetheart. The crowd thought I was _amazing_.”

“You flayed a troll alive!” he snaps. “You _tortured them_ , like some sort of a fucking _clown._ The crowd thinks you’re a _feral._ ”

“If a little violence bothers you that much,” you say, conversational, “why, I bet you could just add _that_ protocol to my head, too.”

He takes a breath, dragging his hands down his face. You like him better when he’s angry, over when he’s trying to _simper_ at you. “That’s unfair.” Raphae frowns at you, but only for a moment: then he just looks sad, _tired,_ and you’re all the way back to disappointment. “You know I wouldn’t do that, Ico.”

You swallow the last dredges of your tea. The bottom is chalky, as always, but your head’s feeling better - you’ll give him _that._ And when you swing your legs over the edge of the couch, your pan has cooled just enough that you can take some of the weight off your feet. You hate walking without psionics. It makes you feel _drunk._

 _“I’m_ going to bed,” you tell him, brisk. “If Shepherd’s so gosh darn mad, I suggest you - oh, I don’t know - pap her _,_ and tell her that ticket sales ought to be out the roof for the rest of the season. What’s that, compared to one little green? Why, I bet she’ll be able to make _dozens_ just like them.”

“Really? You liked Wattan.” _As much as you like anyone,_ he starts to say, lips forming the words, but for once, he thinks better of it. Perhaps the protocol slap had stung more than you’d expected! Because instead, he just sighs - and isn’t he ever tired of _sighing?_

 _“_ And I did her a favour.” Your psionics aren’t solid enough for you to really _walk_ properly: there’s too much weight on your feet, too much pressure gluing you to the ground, but there’s scarcely a sway as you step around the couch.

Your room’s the closest to the door for precisely this kind of reason. You’ll do just fine.

“She always promised she’d do the same for _me,”_ you add, jauntily, and you don’t stay to see his expression. He knows you can’t lie. He made _sure_ of that. “Light, Raphae. Thanks for the tea.”


End file.
